What Doesn't Kill You
by Authoress-in-training
Summary: "Sexuality isn't black and white, princess," he sneers.  His voice drops down to a near whisper as he adds, "I just like pretty things."


**WARNING: This fic contains suggestive themes (although nothing explicit, because I don't do that) and plenty of swearing. Do not read if that offends you. Don't say I didn't warn you.**

**Now that that's out of the way... enjoy!**

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><p><em>You know the bed feels warmer<em>

_Sleeping here alone_

_You know I dream in color_

_And do the things I want_

There are few things Santana Lopez likes more than performing (that she can do with her clothes on, that is). And as much as she loves New Directions, a secret part of her still wishes for the days when the Troubletones stalked McKinley's halls. This Kelly Clarkson number, though a more than obvious bone tossed just to get them to come back, is a nice little return to that; and for at least three minutes, she can pretend that _she_, not Rachel Berry, is the star of the club.

The other girls sing their background "ahs" in perfect rhythm and harmony, the lights are shining brightly on her skin and for a moment, Santana is in pure heaven. Nothing compares to this feeling of being onstage, of singing her heart out, leaving all her baggage in the wings. Onstage, it doesn't matter that her prospects for next year are mediocre at best, that her family is hanging on by a thread, that her abuela cut her out of her life for having feelings for her best friend, a girl who might not even return those feelings anymore. She's just a voice, body and soul, and having the time of her life.

And then she sees him. _Smiling_ at her.

_That fucking bastard_.

_Think you got the best of me_

_Think you had the last laugh_

_Bet you think that everything good is gone_

She'd listened to Kurt whine on about the too-good-looking-for-his-own-good Dalton boy threatening to come in between him and Blaine, but it wasn't until the infamous slushy incident that he really came onto her radar. Revenge is practically Santana's middle name so while Kurt had his doubts about seeking vindication for his blinded boyfriend, Santana had no such qualms. Armed with her shortest skirt and a mini recorder taped underneath her breast, she strode right into Dalton like she owned the place, an avenging angel straight from hell.

She'd expected arrogance. Smugness. A cocksure, self-centered little prick who couldn't see past the shadow of his own self-importance to the fact that the world didn't revolve around him and what he wanted. The kind of boy who would play tough, but that she could steamroll with the right combination of correctly chosen words.

Instead, she got Sebastian Smythe.

From the moment she set foot in that auditorium, Santana knew she was ill-prepared. He was every bit as arrogant and self-centered as the phantom boy in her mind, but there was something in the way he carried himself – more like a young European collegiate than a Midwest high school boy. Sebastian was another one too good for Ohio, but the difference was that he all but _flaunted_ it.

And, although she'd never admit it, there was something about that kind of confidence she found oh so very attractive.

He met her inch for inch, blow for blow, countering her verbal attacks with perfectly timed responses of his own. Santana was caught off-guard, although she never let it show. When he suggested a duet, though, she let herself relax a tiny bit. No matter how good this Dalton boy is, nothing can compare when she really lets her voice loose. His head might as well already be on a platter.

Then he started to sing, and she almost lost her balance because _whoa_, as much charisma as this boy has speaking, it's exponentially increased when he's singing. His hand trails along the curve of her shoulder, hot breath in the shell of her ear and she has to bite her tongue to swallow the soft moan threatening to escape.

_What_ was her problem? she wondered. She loves girls. Loves Brittany. She came to terms with it a while ago, has accepted that this is who she is and firmly thrown open the doors to the closet (okay, they were forcefully wrenched open, but she's finally past that too). Period. End of story. And Sebastian is clearly not interested in anything she might have to offer, if his single-minded pursuit of Blaine was anything to go off of.

But that didn't seem to mean a thing to her body.

Tingles. For Sebastian. And they were _not_ going away.

She threw all of her passion into the song, unleashing those high notes with a startling new intensity. At the very least, something good can come of this; she can beat his sorry ass and wring that confession out of him. They circle each other in the maze of ugly yellow chairs, their voices soaring and twisting like hawks in the desert. When the music ends with a dramatic flourish, they wind up face to face, almost nose to nose, and for the first time she looks into his emerald green eyes and sees a sliver of attraction there, mirroring the one in her own. _So we'll call it a draw,_ she thought.

And then he had to go and kiss her.

_Think you left me broken down_

_Think that I'd come running back_

_Baby you don't know me 'cause you're dead wrong_

The cold sting of a slushy shower almost immediately afterwards took some of the edge out of the memory, but there was no denying the electricity that jolted through her veins, the way every nerve ending in her body felt like a firework waiting to explode. Brittany's kisses made her heart race, but this… this was something else entirely.

She tried her best to put it out of her mind, linking pinkies with Brittany and buying her singing telegrams on Valentine's Day. But every time the blond's lips met her own for a sweet, gentle caress, she's reminded of that fateful encounter, of how the one person she shouldn't want made her feel more alive than she's ever felt before.

It takes every ounce of her not inconsiderable acting skills to keep an impassive face when he calls them to The Lima Bean for an 'apology'. He makes puppy-dog eyes at Blaine, but when no one else is looking they dart over to her, making her feel as exposed as if she was naked.

_What are you doing?_ she wants to scream, _you're gay and I'm a lesbian; we shouldn't want each other!_ But just because something _shouldn't_ exist doesn't mean it doesn't, and she swallows hard to keep the cracks in her armor from showing as a rush of heat pools in her core, eventually sending her flying into a bathroom stall, fingers frantically searching for release in a pale imitation of what she really wants.

_Two can play at that game_, she decides.

_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger_

_Stand a little taller_

_Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone_

It becomes a game between the two of them. She 'accidentally' brushes against his thigh when the two choirs meet up before the show to wish each other luck, not saying a word. He winks at her from onstage, hips thrusting in the Warblers' surprisingly sexy dance moves. All very playful, completely harmless, teasing fun.

But this is definitely against the rules. There he is, with that annoyingly handsome face, _smiling_ at her like he's fucking _proud_ of her. Like she's his fucking _girlfriend_ or something.

_Where did _that_ come from?_

_What doesn't kill you makes a fighter_

_Footsteps even lighter_

_Doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone_

This is getting into dangerous territory, she realizes. Whatever this is between the two of them, it's clearly not so innocent anymore. And every second he spends in her mind is one more strike against her relationship with Brittany, one of the few good things left in her life anymore.

She used to be the kind of person who would disregard morality in favor of her own pleasure, but not anymore. Loving Brittany changed her, made her a better person, and she honestly kind of likes herself better now.

This has to end.

Now.

_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stronger_

_Just me, myself and I_

_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger_

_Stand a little taller_

_Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone_

_I'm not alone_

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><p>As much as it pains her to admit it, when Rachel belts out "Here's to Us", that's probably what clinches the New Directions' win. That does <em>not<em> mean Santana owes the petite diva anything, however, so she takes her time in the dressing room, remaining there long after the others have cleared out, admiring the way the red folds of the underskirt swish around her long, tanned legs. Eyeballing the ridiculous pink bridesmaid's dress she's supposed to change into, she shudders and looks away, back to the full-length mirror. Rachel may have won them Regionals, and she certainly dresses herself better these days, but that dress is just plain hideous. (And who gets married at eighteen anyways?)

She sees his reflection before she sees him.

"Congratulations, Santana." He hovers in the doorway, head held high and hands clasped politely behind his back like a good little prep school boy. Only the barest hint of a mischievous gleam in his eyes belays his true character.

The low, silky tones of his voice send goosebumps running down her arms, and she spins on her heel to face him, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her body's reaction to his presence. "You're not bitter?" she asks sarcastically, tilting her head to the side so her long dark curls spill down her bare back, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, and she smiles smugly in her head. _Santana, 1; Sebastian, 0._ "We did beat you, after all. I'd have thought you'd be burning with rage, roaring for revenge in the most demeaning way possible."

He just smiles, taking a few steps forward; not taking her bait. _Damn. What's he after?_ "A wise man knows when to accept defeat. We were good, but you were better." His tongue slides over the word _you_ like it's something to savor, eyes a luminous green. "You deserved it." Her breath catches in her throat.

This is not fair. Just when she'd been about to leave the game for good, he's changing the rules, and now she doesn't even know how to play anymore.

Instinctively, she steps backwards, wanting to put space between them. "What's your angle, Smythe? You and I both know you aren't this nice even if you've supposedly 'reformed', so what do you want?"

He dons his trademark smirk, eyes darkening, and her heart skips a beat as he advances forward. She keeps going backwards until her back hits the mirror; trapped. Helplessly, she flattens her palms on the glass, the leaded crystal cool beneath her fingertips.

_Brittany, Brittany, think of Brittany_, she chants in her head, conjuring up an image of her sweet, beautiful girlfriend dancing on that stage, glowing with life. But it only lasts until her next breath, when she inhales the scent of expensive cologne and looks up to see Sebastian standing in front of her, his lips centimeters from hers. All thoughts of Brittany disappear into the ether, and for the first time Santana starts to think that she might not be able to win this game.

"And here I thought you were smarter than that, Lopez." Her fingers curl up into her palms at his proximity, the heat of his breath on her throat, the feeling of his well-muscled body so close to hers. It's absolutely ridiculous that a boy – that _this _boy – can affect her like this. "Resorting to last names? Really? What are we, seven?"

"What do you want, Sebastian?" she repeats, the words coming out choked sounding. She curses herself for that, for showing him how he's gotten to her. _You shouldn't want him. You _can't_ want him._

"You."

There's only a split second before his mouth crushes against hers, but it's more than enough time for Santana to realize that she does have options. She could scream, shove him away, knee him in the groin and call sexual harrassment. She could put this entirely on him and walk away with a mostly clear conscience, back to Brittany and the new life she's made for herself on the ashes of her old reputation, never again to face the fact that her heart might be even more complicated than she could have ever imagined.

Instead, she slides her arms around his neck and kisses him back.

His lips are soft, but there's a force to the kiss that suggests he's going to be anything but gentle with her. _Good_, she thinks, tightening her grip. She doesn't want softness, tenderness, anything that will remind her of the best friend she's betraying. This is about lust, control and obsession and pure _want_.

He bites her bottom lip and she gasps into his mouth, allowing his tongue entry, which quickly becomes a battle for dominance (it's a draw, like always). His hands grip her hips tightly, pushing her forward and holding her against the wall. Recklessly, she locks her ankles around the small of his back, bracing her back against the mirror for support. He grunts before lifting her up into his arms, shedding his blazer as he does.

Her fingers work at the knot of his striped tie, and he finally has to set her down on the linoleum floor because she's unbuttoning his shirt slowly, nipping at the skin she exposes inch by inch. He retaliates by sliding his hands around her abdomen to the zipper of her dress, yanking it down in one fluid motion. She's basically in his lap, and as she bucks her hips to remove the dress completely he lets out a stifled groan. It takes her a minute but then she feels him, straining through his slacks, and smirks devilishly, circling her hips slowly and purposefully, her ebony waves hanging down her bare shoulders like a curtain. His response is to place one hand on the nape of her neck and tug her down until she's lying half-naked on the floor and he's burying his head in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking on the tender skin in a way that has her back arching into his hands, eyes sliding closed in pleasure.

Then it's all touch and taste and feeling as something inside her shuts down, giving herself over to the sensations he's drawing from her like a moth to a flame. There will be bruises on her hips in the shape of his fingers, so she digs her nails into his back, desperate to leave her mark on him the way he has all over her. It's rough and frantic but still manages to ignite a fire in her like never before, and when she screams his name she barely has the sense to muffle it against his shoulder so they aren't discovered. A moment later he curses in what sounds like French and then collapses, spent, against her.

The shame takes a minute to set in, creeping like fog and replacing the hazy happiness of her afterglow. Her skin feels hot against the cold, dirty floor, and she reaches for the first thing she can find to cover herself, to halt her self-esteem in its rapidly plunging free-fall. Unfortunately, it's his Dalton blazer, which only succeeds in making her feel worse about herself.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he gets dressed, curled up in a ball wearing only her underwear and his jacket. If she was anyone else, he thinks there might be tears, but she's Santana Lopez, so she just stares blankly into space, numbed by the realization of what she just did.

"For the record," he says finally, breaking the tense and awkward silence, "I didn't mean that thing about you winning. You were good, but we were better."

She laughs – a choked, disbelieving sound – looking at him for the first time since she was underneath him. "You are unbelievable," she spits. "I don't think I've ever met someone more full of themself."

"You were full of myself not too long ago – and not exactly complaining about it, if I recall correctly." It's a low blow, and he regrets it when he sees the way her eyes flash angrily for only a second, before returning to their defeated pose. There's something different about her now, like he stripped away the confidence she wore like a second skin, leaving her open and vulnerable before him.

"You're a pig," she shoots back, but she's strangely apathetic, and the game isn't fun anymore, not like this.

He makes one more stab at trying to get back what they had. "What's got your panties in a twist? Besides me, of course."

She all but growls at him, leaping to her feet and wrapping his jacket tighter around her body. He's so tall that it almost covers everything important, but she can feel his eyes on her slim, toned thighs and it makes her skin crawl. "I honestly don't know who I hate more right now; you for doing this, or me for letting you." His eyes widen at the pure hatred in her voice. "I've finally come to terms with who I am and who I love, and then you make me start questioning everything. I have a _girlfriend_, who I love and care about more than anything in the world. Sometimes I think that Brittany is the one good and pure thing left in my life, and you made me throw that all away for what – a quick fuck in the choir room?" Her voice strains a bit, and she recognizes the tightness in her throat as a sign that she's about to cry. Well, she refuses to; won't dare shed a single tear over this asshole. "You used me like a cheap slut, and I let you. So you won, okay? Game over. Now get out of my sight."

In the space of one breath he's standing in front of her, so close she can practically count his eyelashes. "Like hell I will," he spits, grabbing her wrist so she can't run away. She twists and yanks to pull herself free, but he's too strong, forcing her to look him in the eye. "This wasn't a game to me, Santana, and I don't believe that it was to you either, no matter what you say. You can lie to yourself until your face turns blue, but you wanted this. You _wanted_ me. And if I'm not wrong – and I never am – you want me to fuck you again, no matter what you say about your _precious_ girlfriend." A shiver races down her spine; she pretends it's of revulsion.

"But you…" she struggles. "Why are you doing this? You've been chasing Blaine's tail since the second you met him. You like guys." _And I like girls_. The world has to be simple like that, with both of them slotted into their respective boxes that will never overlap. This is an anomaly, a slip, a one-time mistake. It has to be.

"Sexuality isn't black and white, _princess_," he sneers, throwing back in her face the words New Directions used to taunt him after the infamous slushy incident. His voice drops down to a near whisper as he adds, "I just like pretty things."

Her breath catches in her throat because no one's ever called her that before. Sexy, yes; hot, more times than she can count; but pretty? There are better, more descriptive words with the same connotation, but in its own way, it feels like the greatest compliment he could have ever given her.

She inhales sharply, meeting his gaze. She's close enough to spot the previously unseen flecks of blue in his eyes, and for the first time Santana realizes there's so much about Sebastian Smythe that she doesn't know.

But she says nothing, and finally he lets her go, turning his back on her as he buttons up his shirt and knots his tie, wincing at the scratches on his back. Eventually, though, he has no choice. "I kind of need my blazer back, you know?"

She raises her chin defiantly and stares at him for a moment, as though judging whether he's going to tear the jacket from her body if she doesn't comply. But it doesn't last long before she spins around and yanks the pink dress over her head, letting his blazer fall to the ground, where she's sure to step on it before making her way back to the mirror. He rolls his eyes at the way she always has to make everything so fucking _difficult_, but then, she wouldn't be Santana if she didn't.

She's doing battle with her hair, trying to tame it out of it's sex-mussed state, when he comes up from behind her and trails his hand along the curve of her neck, like the first time he ever touched her. The skin underneath his fingertips is tingling, but she forces herself to shift away, spinning around to face him. "What do you think you're doing?" she demands, looking everywhere but his eyes.

He smirks, and she curses herself when she realizes that something about this position feels like déjà vu. But history is _not_ going to repeat itself, not if she has anything to say about it. "Maybe you're satisfied to fuck anything that moves, but I'm not. What happened today was a mistake. And if you value what's between your legs, you will never breathe a word of it to anyone."

His smile only grows wider. "You're awfully defensive for someone who claims to not have any feelings for me whatsoever," he points out. The look in her eyes could adequately be described as murderous.

But instead of slipping back into their old familiar game, she holds her head high and slips into her shoes, stalking towards the door. "I have a wedding to get to," she offers as her excuse, not sparing a look back.

Sebastian watches her go, more intrigued than anything. There's nothing he likes more than the thrill of the chase, and after today, he's finally found a worthy adversary. _This is going to be fun_, he thinks, picking up her costume and breathing in the scent of her perfume.

No matter what she says now, he knows it won't last long. She'll be back.

They always are.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: This is the first Glee fic I've been inspired to write for a long time, and it's also the most out of my comfort zone thing I've ever done. These two just bring it out in me, I guess. *winks*<strong>

**So how'd I do? I know the end's not nearly as good as the beginning, but otherwise not bad, right?**

**Oh, and just in case you didn't catch it during "On My Way" (although if you're reading this, you're probably a shipper, which means you probably did), the bit with him smiling at her during "Stronger" is real. I _swear_ Ryan Murphy keeps sticking in these moments on purpose just to torture us, although I really would love to see them do an episode with Santana realizing that sexuality isn't black and white (because seriously, I don't buy that she slept with half the school just because she was confused and didn't want to come out of the closet. She is _so_ bisexual, and I totally think he is as well). And, unrelated, I _really_ hope Sebastian doesn't go back to being the asshole, although I am curious as to what they're going to do with him now.**

**I have a couple other ideas brewing in the back of my mind, so you'll probably hear some more from me soon. God only knows, we're going to need each other to get through the hiatus (is it just me, or does the car crash thing _reek_ of "Oh, we need a giant cliffhanger to keep people interested until April"? No you don't, and honestly, it sort of cheapens the suicide thing by throwing in 'don't text and drive' as well. Stick to one PSA per episode, please).**

**Catch you on the flip side!**

**- Authoress**


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